


Legs of Corduroy

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bestiality, Bondage, Boss/Employee Relationship, Breeding, Dehumanization, Drugged Sex, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 21:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: Edmonton is a long way to go to talk to a man about a horse.





	Legs of Corduroy

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are, anons on tumblr keeping me honest to my roots! Figured it was time for Connor to make a reappearance, eh?
> 
> Title is from "When I Was a Painter" by, get this, The Breeders. I am so overwhelmingly funny.
> 
> My horse knowledge has been decaying ever since The Saddle Club stopped airing. This is obviously completely fucked morally speaking, but no one thinks that way in-universe, so there's some consent fuckery on that axis. Let me know about typos or extra warnings, enjoy!

Connor wakes up at the first switch of the lamp. His roommate is otherwise unobtrusive, walking carefully and making little noise as they dig through their bag. A door clicks shut, and a shower starts up not long after. The white noise lulls him back to a shallow haze, until a warm hand touches his bare shoulder. A  man’s voice says, “It’s time to get up now.”

Even if he had been deeply asleep, responding to his trainer was long hardwired into him now. He cracked his eyes open, then sits up. Jordan has a kind face, but he’s never been particularly patient. “Would you like to have some time in the bathroom?” he asks. 

“Sure. If there’s time,” Connor says.

He nods. “You have fifteen minutes. Don’t lock the door.”

Connor knows Jordan won’t come in unless he stays in there too long, so it’s kind of a pointless demand, if you ask him. Still, the door goes unlocked as Connor relieves himself, scrubs his teeth until his gums are raw, and steps into the shower. He’s not as thorough there; they’ll be going back over everything later. Instead, Connor lets himself enjoy the solitude and the feel of the warm water on his face. He’s back in the main room with two minutes to spare.

Jordan is already dressed for the day, leaning against his headboard, while Connor’s clothes are lied on out the other bed. He puts them on. Jordan hands him an uncapped bottle of water. He drinks, and asks, “Can I have some crackers or something?”

After an assessing look, Jordan responds, “Alright. Don’t drink too fast.”

They leave five minutes later. The cold bites at Connor’s face, the sun a long way from rising. On the road, they drive for a long time, until the freeway narrows and the pavement thins and ages until it’s gone, wind whipping snow like little waves everywhere. Winter in Alberta reminds him of home, more than the mild flurries in Vancouver.  Eventually, they pull onto a farm road that leads to a once-great barn, well maintained but straining at the seams. It’s unsurprising; wins have been coming to them less frequently, and at a lower level. Still, this is where Gretzky spent half of career. His fingerprints are all over these horses’ pedigree. The value in  _ that  _ hasn’t diminished yet, if it ever will.

None of that is any of Connor’s business, of course. Jordan leads him into the barn with a hand on the small of his back, more out of habit than necessity. He goes easy.

There’s an older man with a bulldog face waiting for them outside, who calls out, “I’m guessing you’re Jordan?”

“And you’re Todd,” Jordan confirms. “Early morning, eh?”

Todd grunts. “Worse for you, with that drive.” 

“Mr. Nugent-Hopkins prefers staying in the city,” Jordan explains as they’re led inside. It’s warmer in the barn, all dark wood and brick. Todd keeps addressing Jordan, talking trade, until they pause in front of a stall. Jordan asks, “Is this Oil Slick?”

“Indeed it is. Pride of Rogers Place,” Todd says, affection clear in his voice. Conner shifts, then approaches the open stall door when Jordan doesn’t stop him. Inside, a couple of handlers are already prepping the stallion. He’s lean, a racer’s body, and so dark a brown it tricks the eye. Handsome. A little agitated, already.  Connor swallows and steps back into place. He catches Todd eyeing him a second before the other man says, “We have men who can take care of your bait, if you’d rather relax before the show.”

It wouldn’t be the first time, but today is important. One of the most important days in their career, if things go the way everyone hopes. Jordan insists, “Thank you, but we like to keep things in-team.”

Todd shrugs and leads them out the other side of the barn, down another pathway. The cold still stings, but it isn’t a long walk.  _ Shed  _ seems like the wrong word for the second building; it’s spacious, like the barn, and well equipped. Their usual guy, Milan, is already there, setting things up.

“Did you drink your water?” Jordan asks. Connor nods. He can feel its effects loosening his limbs. Another plastic cup is handed to him, this one with just enough water to swallow the small yellow pill placed in his other hand. His clothes are removed, folded, and placed to the side. Jordan guides him to a rinsing area. The water is heated enough for the horses to drink, but this will never be Connor’s favorite part of this. By the time Jordan brings Connor back into the main room, his legs are wobbling beneath him.

The breeding stand is a large, bulky device, padded on every side, strong enough to support half a ton without pressing inward. With a little help, Connor gets himself up lying prone on the main bench. His arms are tucked in and bound, his legs carefully folded out of the way. This all used to make him feel claustrophobic, but it’s for his protection, and it’s comfortable enough.

One of Jordan’s hand comes down on the small of his back, settling, before cool fingers press against his hole. Jordan adding one, two, three fingers easy, the smell of the shed, the feeling of being closed away for other purposes, is all routine by now. Connor breathes out. His mind feels hazy, eyes sliding over the off-white nylon padding. 

It’s a shock when Jordan adds his pinkie and starts working his knuckles up into Connor. It’s a shock _because_ it is shocking. Connor hasn’t been in the business for too long, but Jordan’s a good trainer and his stock has been rising steadily in the last year or two. Between the experience and muscle relaxants and occasional tranquilizers, the prep shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t feel it, period. His body is numb enough that he can barely curl his toes when he tries, and yet—

Jordan presses in past the ball of his thumb, and Connor whimpers. God, the unprofessionalism. 

“Shhh,” Jordan soothes, hand petting Connor’s back as he eases the rest of his hand in, down to his wrist. This is the longest part, Connor knew in theory, but he’d never really been _aware_ of it before. He can feel it as Jordan slowly twists his hand, pulls back until Connor’s rim is caught on the widest part of his knuckles, and then presses in again, just a hair deeper, made easy by copious amount of lube.

Connor’s thoughts are sliding around his mind, too slick to hold onto, and there’s nothing he can do but take it and take it and take it. Not that there’s ever anything else for him to do.

“Got a glimpse of the stud on the way in,” Milan says after a while, voice aiming for casual. “Big fella. If you need help getting Connor ready…”

“Think I got in, Milan. Have you already finished your work? The catalyst hormones? The collector? Is that why you’re standing around watching?” Jordan responds shortly, punching in further. He’s so  _ deep,  _ up his arm, for sure, and Connor is happy Jordan didn’t switch out. Not that it should make any difference who’s doing what, but… Connor trusts him. 

When Jordan finally sits back and withdraws, Connor feels the emptiness acutely, like never. When he thinks about what’s going to fill him up next, for the first time in his career, Connor has a full-body shock of panic. It's not right.

“Jordan?” Connar croaks, mouth barely playing along.

“Hm?” Jordan hums, rolling the glove off his arm. The lube goes a long way up.

Connor waits until Jordan comes closer to the stand and bends, then whispers, “I still feel… things. Was the dose the same?” It's early in his career, but Connor knows you can build up tolerance to the normal stuff. He also knows they have some fast-acting stuff, from the last time an inexperienced stallion took a long time to mount.

But Jordan doesn’t tell Milan to get anything out. Instead, he says, gently, “You wanted to eat this morning.” Connor stares until his vision crosses.  _ You  _ let  _ me, _ he doesn’t say. Jordan sighs, reaches between the bars to squeeze Connor’s neck reassuringly, and continues, “Ryan wanted to try out a new cocktail, anyway. I promise, it isn’t going to affect anything. You’re not going to get hurt."

Then, because Jordan is nothing if not punctual, the rest of their party joins them. Connor isn't turned the right way to see, but he can imagine that horse, Oil Slick, enter with his handlers, followed by closely Todd and Ryan.

“Really, it’s an honor to work with you,” Connor hears Ryan say. 

Todd scoffs. “Any Nugent is a friend of mine. Back in the day, your grandfather…”

Now in the shed, Oil Slick gets wound up even tighter, whinnying and stomping his feet. It’s a quick response. Well trained, then.

“I gotta ask, what’s with the fresh face? Looks a little young,” Todd asks.

“Taylor... didn’t fit in with what we were trying to do here anymore. He’s housed somewhere on the American east coast, now, I believe. Connor was an excellent addition to the team. Very mature for his age,” Ryan says softly. It’s hard to hear over the horse getting more and more riled up.

They don’t make him wait, of course not. Jordan steps away. There’s a fuzzy nose against the small of his back for a fraction of a second, a light nip, before the breeding stand jolts, shaking under the massiveness of Oil Slick. Connor doesn’t have enough time to panic again, surrounded on all sides twice over, before his ass is held open while someone guides the horse’s cock into him.

He slams in all at once, all animalistic indifference, and he is big, massive, colossal, more than Connor can wrap his head around. Connor’s been here so many times before but it’s never been like this, like he’s being fucked by an animal and can feel every inch of it everywhere, like he can feel it pressing up against his the back of his throat, too. It’s all consuming, the sensation of being stretched to his limit—but is it really? There have been bigger horses, Connor just didn’t  _ know— _

The breeding stand is well-built, so the squeaking must being coming from Connor. It’s embarrassing, after Ryan made a point of telling Todd about how mature he is. Connor has so much more training to do, clearly.

The breeding doesn’t last long, isn’t meant to. Just a means to an end. Oil Slick dismounts with little warning and is presumably led away, paycheck earned. There are human hands on Connor again—grabby, so probably Milan _—_ spreading him open to collect the makings of Canada’s next superstar thoroughbred. 

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Ryan says. He sounds far away in Connor’s ears.

“And with you. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Todd responds.

“No, thank you. My guys can take care of things from here, if that’s alright.”

A few moments later, there’s a new set of hands on Connor’s ass. Long, familiar fingers toy with his rim, meeting no resistance when he presses one in. Connor feels like he can read his mind— _ how many fingers will I need to be able to feel this on my cock? _

And then that hand drifts lower to hold onto Connor’s cock. He’s hard, Connor finally realizes, mortified. It’s not supposed to be like that, for him. He’s a professional, not a freak.

Luckily, Ryan doesn’t seem too bothered. He says to the other two men, “Get him cleaned up. You can bring him up my room, when you get back to the hotel.”

“... Sure. Of course,” Jordan says. He thinks this  _ thing  _ between Connor and Ryan isn’t appropriate, but for once, Connor doesn’t care. It’s worth it when he’s finally helped out of the breeding stand, and the first thing he sees is Ryan’s proud, smiling face.

**Author's Note:**

> [The source of all evil, AKA my porn blog.](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com) Also good for messaging!


End file.
